


"Father's Day" or "A Prelude to The Private and Intimate Life of the Mortuary"

by MrSpears



Series: Star Oracle [1]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Personal Canon, Rusty AF, Self-Indulgent, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:32:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: Bravat returns to see his father after being gone for so long. However, Undertaker seems unwilling to let him go.





	"Father's Day" or "A Prelude to The Private and Intimate Life of the Mortuary"

Sunlight doesn’t make it through the windows of his father’s mortuary. The curtains are too thick, old and dark to let anything through. Whatever beams manage to seep in between the hairline slits where the fabric is made to part are too weak to do much. They only light up the dust particles that are drifting indolently in the air, spiraling like snowflakes – burning like fireflies. 

Christ, the smell. Sandalwood incense only accomplished so much as far as masking the smell of death. The air felt too thick and cold to breathe…even underneath his ink black robes and soft suede gloves, Bravat was shivering. 

The coffins were different every time. Yet it always felt like he was walking in on the same ones. Set in rows like grim sentinels, waiting for him to return. Waiting with wide mouths and satin tongues to swallow him whole. He had not been inside of a coffin since he was a child. Not since his father picked him up and set him inside, a bony hand resting on his round cheek. “How beautiful they make you, starlight…” 

Somewhere, a door shut. Bravat’s heart jumped into his throat and he froze, one thin hand resting on the edge of a coffin lid. His fingertips slid into the grooves that made up the intricate design. Expensive – a woman of title would find her final resting place in this one, no doubt. His father had put hours into it. He poured weeks into every single one of them – insisting they be perfect. He would never order his boxes ready-made from another, no.

Nothing happened. His father did not emerge, and Bravat found himself looking around the room – as if his gaze was following the ghost of his much younger self, not even tall enough to see over the grand rounded lids as he flitted between their rows, peeking around corners – no smiles, no laughter. But that smell. That unholy smell….

His eyes were burning, watering stinging the red corners and making them itch. He was squeezing the edge of the coffin lid so hard that his hand was starting to ache. He knew it smelled like pine. Like sandalwood and myrrh; like sachets of lavender stuffed down into the corners. Soft, and so dark – his father’s hand on his face, a stiffening touch that bore such a chill that it sank down to his bones and stopped his heart from beating quite so fast…

_“You know how to play the game, starlight, you must pretend that you are dead. Pretend you don’t even feel it…”_  
“How beautiful you are. What a beautiful doll you make…”   
“Back, to see me? And did you miss me so much, little darling, did you miss your papa, did you miss my tea and biscuits?” 

Tea. Tea, black leaves settled at the bottom of a teacup where he learned how to divine his future. His hands always shook with terror or exhaustion when he read them in the past. It was so dark in his hiding space and his candle cast so many shadows that he could never be confident in his accuracy… 

Fingers crawling into his mouth, prying apart his lips and digging for the back of his throat. Startling. Real. Not a memory from before, it was actually, he was actually… 

Bravat gagged. He pulled away, as if breaking free of a trance, and he felt Undertaker pull his fingers free – dragging out some of Bravat’s warmth with them, fingertips glistening obscenely from the wetness of his tongue. 

“You look well, Bravat.” Undertaker’s voice was a serrated knife that cut an ugly gash in the silence. Bravat huffed furiously, sky blue eyes glowering as he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, setting his teeth in a snarl. 

“I did not come to see you,” it was the first thing out of his mouth. And it was absurd. Why else would he be here?

“I see,” Undertaker’s voice was now laced with amusement as he moved to settle on the lids of one of his coffins – looking more like an apprentice in a cabinet maker’s shop than a seven-foot-tall icon of death. “If that is so…” 

“It is.” Bravat clipped.

“…Then what regrettable twist of fate has brought you to my doorstep?” Undertaker continued, not missing a beat. “Do not tell me that your husband has succumbed to his age or – perish the thought, one of your children….?” 

“No,” Bravat cut him off viciously. “No, my family is well. Death is not rotting them from the inside out.” He could not help but glance around again. Just being here made him feel like he was rotting – falling apart, grey, sinking, shriveled…”It is always the same here. Every time I come.” 

“Some things always stay the same.” Undertaker’s eyes slid up and down Bravat’s form with lascivious suggestion. “Even you – you have not much changed.” 

“I have changed enough,” Bravat tilted his chin up. “I don’t think you would make like me, anymore.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” Undertaker agreed. “But I did not like you much before.” He stood again, the distance between them easily closed by a single hand reaching out – a skeletal claw tracing Bravat’s small jawline – slipping over his pointed chin, long black nails pressing up against the soft flesh underneath with near-piercing force. “Although I was fond of every sound you made. Of every soft plea and whimper I ever dragged from your throat. Worth hearing again, I wager…” 

Bravat’s heart was lead. It dropped down into his stomach so quickly he nearly threw up at his father’s touch. He backed away again, nearly falling onto one of the coffins, his suede gloves gliding over the wooden surface, the lack of traction almost sending him to the ground. He managed to catch himself in time; but he wanted to rip the gloves away. He wanted to tear it all off, every bit of clothing. Rid himself of this place, this smell, everything that would ever feel like his father’s violating hands…

“I don’t know why I came,” he finally said – his breath shaky, his hands trembling so badly he did not dare raise them, lest they be seen. “I don’t know why I…” 

“You missed me, didn’t you?” Undertaker cooed, his awful voice crackling as he continued to advance on his child. “It is understandable. Every child longs to be embraced by…”

_“No!”_ Bravat stood upright, taking several more steps backwards – not even sure if the door was behind him, but hoping dearly that it was. “No, no, I…” Why had he come back here? There must have been a reason… 

“Did you come to wish me Happy Father’s Day?” Undertaker grinned, his smile like an open wound on his face. “Was that it, starlight?” 

Christ. Maybe that had been it. He had forgotten entirely, and then now… 

“I don’t know why,” his own voice sounded so dry in his throat. “You were never much of a father to me.” 

“I was more of a father than you deserved,” Edward said, and he was close enough now (unrelenting in his pursuit) that when his hand dropped down, it brushed the fabric between Bravat’s legs…

Bravat sucked in a cold breath through his teeth and backed up another pace. His sharp shoulder-blades, as beautifully shaped as wings, hit the wooden door. Pinned in place like a butterfly, the palms of his hands flattening against the wood as his fingers curled, desperate to escape. He would claw his way out, if he had to. But his father was so close. His weight so effective, oppressive – long tendrils of iron grey hair falling over his shoulders as he leaned over. Bold hands were getting bolder. And he cupped between Bravat’s legs, squeezing, an eyebrow going up as if he was surprised everything was still intact. 

Bravat swallowed a cry. He did not dare move. Did not dare breathe. He just stared up at his father’s face – what would have been so handsome if it was not nearly cut in half by an ugly, paling scar. Green eyes like a cat’s staring back intently. For a moment, neither of them moved. 

Minutes passed. It may as well have been hours. Finally, Bravat broke the silence – his voice cracking a bit as the weight of the tension made it ache. 

“I have to go,” he said meekly. Barely a statement. Almost a plea.

Undertaker allowed his hand to linger a moment long before he nodded, accepting the excuse – for now. He pulled his hand away. 

“You will come to me,” he said, “willingly again, one day.” 

“I don’t think so,” Bravat said, his pulse racing as his hands sought for the door handle behind him. “I don’t think so.” Never. 

Undertaker’s grin widened and he stepped back, the darkness already moving in to swallow him completely. “Thank you for your consideration, starlight, in calling upon an infirm old man.” 

Bravat nearly choked on a laugh. He finally found the handle and the door opened behind him. Blessed air. Blessed sunlight. He was free again. Free.


End file.
